


Turning Point #3

by LunaDeSangre



Series: The Way You Fall Asleep [7]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Light Dom/Sub, M/M, S3E19: I Am the Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: "Chief. Severide took a hit from the explosion, seems pretty bad, doc wanted to black-tag him."(Or: Why Kelly shoulddefinitelythink before he acts, even—especially—when he doesn't remember any of what he did afterwards.)





	1. Chapter 1

If there's one thing experience has told Kelly, it's that the worse calls—the ones with the most catastrophic consequences—tend to be those that seem relatively simple at first glance. (Like with Andy. And _Shay_.)

Climbing all the way up on that roof with Matt, higher than even Truck's ladder can reach, to get those two workers off it under their allotted two minutes probably looks mightily impressive, but it's really a rather straightforward thing, even with masks on and that ammonia explosion on the way up (though it's true Kelly's worried about Matt for a few seconds there, since they _are_ very high up and neither of them has clipped themselves to the ladder).

Loading as many victims as they can into the trucks to bring them to the hospital themselves isn't that unusual either: sometimes ambos take too much time, or there's not enough of them, or both, and even if they lack medical equipment and fully trained, experienced EMTs on board (Dawson excepted), both trucks are fully capable of driving fast while administering basic first aid if they have to.

It's a tall building, and a lot of victims in respiratory distress that have to be ferried fast, but it's still an almost routine call.

So as Kelly throws a warm look to Matt, getting a quick little smile in return—the kind that lights up those beautiful, beautiful eyes—and as he climbs on his seat, closes his door and Tony pulls them off-site before the hazmat team's even finished gearing up, he lets himself think: _maybe it'll be a good shift_. After all, he's woken up in bed with Matt, and that's an indisputably _great_ way to start a day.

The thing is, a call isn't really over until you've successfully delivered all your victims into the hands of the people who'll fix them. And really, by now, Kelly should know better than to let himself think any shift could be _good_ before said shift is over.

Or maybe he just has _terrible_ luck, or karma or whatever it's called: he's been happy lately—something was bound to go wrong.

If Kelly really believed in such things, it _would_ explain the suicidal terrorist suddenly in the ER, yelling about being the apocalypse.

As it is, he doesn't wonder, and he doesn't think: he spares a second to look for Matt, frantically, sees him blanching staring at the grenade—far enough away to have a chance, maybe, if Kelly does this right.

 _Maybe_ is all he needs: lightening fast, he thinks _explosion_ and _inevitable_ and _human body shield_ , and then he's not thinking at all, just moving to tackle the madman about to blow them all up.

Somehow, he ends up pushing April out of the way and the terrorist into the wall instead, and in the half-second he finds himself slamming on the floor, just hopes that's enough, just hopes Matt—


	2. Chapter 2

He dreams of Shay. She calls him an idiot and laughs at him a lot. He doesn't know why, but it doesn't matter, he's just happy to see her, to see her smile, and laugh, and say she'll be there always. He thinks _always_ shouldn't be so sad, but she keeps repeating it, and he likes to hear her voice.

He dreams of Matt. He's quiet and sad and flickering, but Kelly strokes him and loves him and he shines, shines so, _so_ bright.

He's the sun, and she's the moon. Kelly is the earth: nothing without them both.

They all spin endlessly in this great blackness, Kelly's lands rumbling and shaking, magma bubbling, his oceans spilling all over the place, and it makes him dizzy, but Shay keeps laughing and it's not so dark when Matt is smiling, because then the brightness is all Kelly can see.

(Andy is the madman building a rocketship. Heather yells at him a lot, but he just does what he wants, because he likes rockets and he likes ships and he wants to see the stars. She yells at Kelly instead, that Andy doesn't listen, that Kelly should make him stay, but Kelly just thinks the rocketship is wicked, even if the only star _he_ needs is Matt.)

He wakes with a silent, close-mouthed gasp. For a second there, it's not _where am I_ , or _who am I_ , but _what_ _am I_. Then it's _I'm Kelly_ , and _where is Matt_. Everything else evaporating, like suddenly-invisible smoke: phantom-like _things_ impossible to grasp.

There's gentle, regular beeps, and he's in a bed, staring at bland white ceiling tiles.

He blinks, moves his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, and April is there on the side, next to a hospital monitoring screen, watching him.

He's fuzzy and confused and lost, and when she raises her eyebrows his hand somehow moves to say hi, and his lips smile a little, fuzzily.

"You scared me," she says, coming closer—with a scarily intense kind of quiet that makes the smile on his face fade.

"I don't remember any of it," he manages to more or less mumble after a few beeps, fuzzily hoping she's going to explain.

"Nothing?" she asks, looking a bit horrified but not very surprised.

He tries to think, fuzzy and confused and lost, tries to remember _something_.

The first thing that pops up is: _Matt_. The second is: _Matt naked_. The third is: _Matt naked and spread opened and begging and bending for him—tight and hot and so, so sweet. Mind-wrecking kisses and fucking hard and deep and rough all over the apartment. Pining him down and bouncing him up and taking, taking, taking._

April is still looking at him, and he can't quite read the expression on her face.

"Nothing," he repeats, shaking his head in wobbly emphasis, when he realizes she's still looking at him because she's expecting an answer.

(He's still fuzzy and confused and lost, but now he's warm too, and vaguely hoping he's not flushing. His _nothing_ is true in the fact that nothing he remembers explains why he's here.)

She doesn't explain—doesn't say _anything_ , just looks at him quietly, then bends down to press a long kiss on his forehead, and that more than anything tells him whatever he's done to end up here must have been really, really bad.

He doesn't ask: he's hoping he didn't scare _Matt_ too, and thinking it's not very likely that he didn't, unless whatever put him here was a squad-only call, or one involving another truck company—if whatever happened happened on shift. If this is a shift day. Whatever day it is. Or night. It's nighttime, isn't it, because April turns off his bedside light and the ceiling one and leaves without another word.

Kelly turns on his side under his thin hospital blanket, looks a bit blankly at the dark outside his window, still fuzzy and confused and lost, and thinks it must be very late then, after her shift and after visiting hours, whatever day it is.

And immediately, like a lovesick idiot, he's thinking about Matt again: whatever day it is, however long Kelly's been here and whatever he's done to be lying on this bed with that monitor attached to him, right now, Matt is alone out there. Probably unable to sleep, tossing and turning and _worrying_.

Kelly doesn't like him worrying.


	3. Chapter 3

Matt is there the next time Kelly wakes up. Kelly doesn't feel so fuzzy anymore, and he's smiling at _his love_ like the lovesick idiot he is before he's even fully aware of being awake.

"Hi gorgeous," he says. Well, _rasps_ : his throat is kind of dry.

"Hi handsome," Matt answers, sounding quiet and a bit choked. He's obviously worrying, and trying to smile (his _everything is okay_ smile), but Kelly knows him too well: Matt could probably fool just about anybody else, but Kelly knows it really means everything is _not_ okay at all—can plainly see the shadows in Matt's red-rimmed eyes, see all his ragged edges, even if he doesn't know their causes. Even if Matt's voice is gentle, whispery-soft and sweet as he continues with: "How are you feeling?"

"'M fine," Kelly answers, automatically, in what is basically a croak. Matt has scrapes on his face too, bags under his _bloodshot_ eyes, and his lips are reddened like he's been biting on them. Something inside Kelly's stomach is twisting itself into a very cold knot: he really, really hates to see Matt worry, and he hates even more to see him banged up, or hurt (or almost dying, lurching and collapsing and bleeding and _seizing_ ). He tries to move a hand in Matt's direction to grab one of his, and realizes Matt is already holding it. "Whasswrong?" he manages to ask.

Matt makes a strange, muffled sound: part scoff, part something else Kelly can't quite identify, something that's sad and _hurt_. The hand not holding Kelly's in that so carefully gentle grip flies to his mouth, makes a fist, presses into it—he keeps his eyes fixed on Kelly's blanket, just shy of their joined hands, unseeing and too wide.

" _Matt?_ " Kelly croaks, cold gnawing worry almost making it an exclamation.

The hand drops from Matt's face, and he takes a deep breath, still not looking at Kelly. "D'you want water?" he asks, voice too soft. "They told me you could have water when you woke up."

Water'd be good—an explanation would be better. What's wrong with Matt, why Kelly's here—in that order if Kelly has any say about it. And nobody can force Matt to talk, not without upsetting him (which is the very last thing Kelly wants), but Kelly knows a way around that—to at least get the answer to that one question that always matters to the both of them.

"Sure," he manages to rasp out, "but I need to know if everyone's okay first."

It's, frankly, blatant manipulation and he knows it (he's sure _Matt_ knows it too), but over the years it's never failed to work: if he words things out like it's something _he_ needs, Matt never denies him anything, and Matt never lies when it involves the well-being of people other than himself (not unless whoever was hurt asked him to—and even then, Matt just tends to dodge questions—but if someone is well enough to ask him to lie, that usually means they're mostly okay anyway—or working on being so—which is an answer in itself). It's unfair, manipulative and not something Kelly likes to do _at all_ , but sometimes it's the only way to even get _near_ all those walls Matt instinctively slams up every time something upsets him.

"Yeah," Matt answers, finally looking at him again—with eyes as tender as his voice. "Everyone's okay, Kelly." He looks like he wants to adds more but can't decide on what, falling silent, just staring at Kelly with those soft, soft eyes.

Kelly nods a little, smiling at him, and squeezes Matt's hand in wordless thanks, in wordless _it's okay_ , at loss as to what else to do or say. Matt squeezes back with a tiny ghost of a smile, there in his whole face—for a moment he seems to be _drowning_ in some kind of resigned sadness, only tethered by their joined hands, and Kelly's breath catches in his chest.

Then Matt lets go, gently, with a caress, gets up and fusses with the pitcher and glass Kelly's only now noticing are on his bedside table. Glass filled, he turns back to Kelly and seems to realize Kelly's lying too flat to drink (somehow, that's escaped _him_ too). "Ah," he says, "Up?"

Kelly's already fumbling for the bed control, but Matt takes it from him, still all sweet softness, and the bed rises slowly. Matt hands him the glass when it stops, keeping one hand hovering under it while Kelly takes a sip, then a few more, and only sitting back in the chair—on the very edge of it—when he's apparently satisfied Kelly is not going to drop it.

Kelly doesn't mind the babying—it's more touching than anything, and feeling _cared for_ is surprisingly nice. But the knot of worry in his stomach with Matt's name on it is now a pit, widening to impossible depths.

Matt takes the glass back when Kelly has barely started to hand it to him, springing back up like a zealous manservant on springs to put it back on the bedside table. "Better?" he asks, regaining his seat.

"Yeah," Kelly manages to say in a more or less normal voice this time. "Thanks." And, because he knows patience is the key with Matt but he has the feeling if he doesn't push a little Matt will _never_ explains what the hell happened: "Matt..."

Matt bites his lower lip, and spasmodically starts smoothing down the part of Kelly's blanket that's right in front of him. Kelly lets him for a few seconds, then grabs the closest hand before Matt can get up and fuss with the whole thing.

" _Matt_ ," he says again, deeper—the same low, steady tone he remembers using to sooth him, to anchor him down, while rocking the shivering, teary-eyed naked armful of him on his lap not that long ago, trying to project calm, safety, love— _so much love_.

It seems Matt recognizes it, too: he sinks slightly in his chair, looking a little more _there_ , wrapping both of his hands around Kelly's. He lets go of his lower lip to take a deep breath, then another, and his posture gets less rigid, more natural. Kelly squeezes his hand again in encouragement and Matt looks back at him—eyes too big and eyebrows climbing up a little, but with that tiny little smile again too.

"Are _you_ okay?" Kelly asks, gently, despite knowing that's a question that never really works, least of all with _Matt_. "Tell me the truth," he adds immediately, before Matt can make a sound, his other hand waving a little to indicate Matt's face. Somehow, it comes out nearly a command—but it makes Matt sit up straighter, at attention almost.

"I'm—" he starts, then closes his mouth, swallows, dropping his eyes to their joined hands for a second, then looking back at Kelly, from under his eyelashes: "I'm...tired. And I was worried," he continues softly, haltingly, "about you. But those are just scratches and grazes, Kel, I swear."

Kelly eyes him: he's sincere, which in a way is kind of surprising, considering the question—and in another way is not at all so, with how Matt's taken to responding to him since that night Kelly half-jokingly called himself his master and somehow became precisely that. "Do they hurt?"

Matt shakes his head in the negative, tiny little smile there again, all sweet and soft.

"Good," Kelly answers, smiling back and squishing his hand.

Matt catches his lower lip between his teeth again, gnaws on it a little bit. Then: "Your friend April," he starts, taking a big breath, "she told me—this morning—you didn't remember what happened? That you woke up during the night? She said she wasn't sure you'd remember later on or not—there's a doc scheduled to see you this morning, to see if your memory's alright—" He seems to choke a little, gaze falling their hands and shooting back up to Kelly's eyes, _pleading_.

"I'm fine," Kelly assures him, but Matt makes a pained face. "I don't remember what happened to put me here," he amends, "but I feel _fine_."

Matt bites his lips. "I told her," he continues, "we spent a lot of time together lately, you and I, so I can—give a timeframe maybe, to compare with what the last thing you remember is?"

He's worried _and_ fidgety. And abruptly Kelly realizes: he's being carefully non-specific. _A lot of time together_ could mean just about anything. Matt knows firsthand how memory losses are—much more than he's ever, and would ever, admit. And this thing between them, it's still _so new_...

Matt's afraid he's _forgotten_.

"I remember _you_ ," Kelly tells him even as the possibility occurs to him—quick and intense, before Matt can twist himself further. Hoping he's conveying just how important it is to him that he _does_. He doesn't even want to think he _could_ have forgotten—could have forgotten _Matt_ , having him, loving him. (And there is absolutely _no way whatsoever_ he's even approaching the devastating thought of what _being forgotten_ would have done to _Matt.)_ "I remember _us_ ," he specifies, wanting there to be no doubts at all what he means. And, because he's never claimed to be _good_ , even when he's lying in an hospital bed, because he wants to defuse things a bit, and because he just plain _loves_ to make Matt blush: "I remember us, fucking like horny bunnies all over the apartment."

Matt does his lip-biting thing again for a second, pinking adorably (and yeah, Kelly's grinning like a proud idiot that he can make him turn this shade by _just talking_ ). "I was hoping you did," he finally says with a weak, but irrepressible little grin. "I mean, you called me _gorgeous_ when you woke up," he adds with a little laugh, blushing _more_. "'Course, you could have been hallucinating somebody else," he teases—or tries to, tone almost right but face, so, so soft.

"There's no one more gorgeous than you for me to hallucinate, sunshine," Kelly replies with his best shit-eating grin, aware it's _completely_ mushy (even if it's true).

Matt is surprised into a laugh—precisely what Kelly's been aiming at. "You're on some good meds, aren't you?" he states more than asks, eyes soft and warm, dimpled smile lighting up the room.

"Nothing hurts," Kelly concedes with a grin. "But I don't feel fuzzy or anything."

"That's good," Matt agrees with that sweet, sweet smile. There's a tiny pause, as Kelly drinks him in, waiting patiently, and: "Kelly," he asks, softly, "what _is_ the last thing you remember? Precisely."

"I remember falling asleep with you in my arms," Kelly answers, having already tried to work it through during the night. "There's just nothing after that. I know we were supposed to be on shift the next day though."

"We were," Matt whispers, smile lost, suddenly looking like he's drowning in a bottomless pool of sadness again. "That was the day before yesterday," he says after a breath, visibly trying to put himself back together. "We were on shift _yesterday_ —that's when you were injured. You've only lost one morning then, you were—you were unconscious the rest of the day."

Which, yeah, is reassuring: loosing one morning is already bad enough, especially one morning he must have woken up next to _Matt_. He doesn't want to imagine loosing _days_.

But if he was unconscious _the rest of the day_ , that means Matt's been worrying not just the whole night, but _the rest of yesterday as well_. Which is a really, really awful thought.

"There'll be a doctor coming later on to check you're okay, memory-wise," Matt continues. "Wait, I said that already, didn't I?" he interrupts himself with a little helpless grin. "They've told me they're positive you're gonna make a full recovery, but April signaled the memory loss, and they say it happens often enough, people loosing a few hours after an injury that requires emergency surgery, but you're gonna have a few tests to make sure you're really okay."

"Alright," Kelly says, remembering Matt going through the same procedure after the emergency surgery _he'd_ had to go through the year before (and holding his wrists while he convulsed, all bloodied and _dying_ —being utterly _terrified_ at the very large, very real chance to loose him _just like that_ ). "How much later on?" he asks instead of letting himself shudder at the memory. He'll jump through every hoop he has to, but right now, all he wants is more time with Matt. For them _both_.

"Around ten, they said," Matt answers, one-handedly fumbling for his phone in his pocket, other hand not leaving Kelly's. "It's eight thirty-six now," he adds, looking down at the screen before pocketing it again.

"Good," Kelly grins. "Do you want the _blow-by-blow_ of everything I remember the two of us doing the day before yesterday?"

Matt laughs a little, softly, blushing again. "I don't think that'll be necessary," he says gently, cradling Kelly's hand again. One of his thumbs has started doing soothing little circles on the back of Kelly's fingers, and he doesn't seem aware of it, looking at Kelly so tenderly it almost hurts, in a very good way.

Kelly lets the pause stretch, basking in the easy joy of having him near, caring so sweetly and so visibly, a bit awed that such a simple touch feels so good. He still _really_ wants to know what the hell went wrong on that shift, what shook Matt up so much—because obviously something particularly terrifying must have happened—and what landed him here, but he knows better than to push Matt too much before he's ready to talk.

"It was a really bad shift, Kel," Matt whispers after a while, staring at their hands. "It was a really bad _day_."

"But no one else was hurt?" Kelly confirms, softly, not wanting to spook him.

"No," Matt answers, looking back at him and shaking his head slightly, "just scrapes for most of us. A few civilians had to be hospitalized too, but nobody was critical except _you_. There was one death, but that's the guy who—" He stops, gaze dropping, like he's struggling not to cry again.

"Tell me," Kelly coaxes gently, squeezing his hand comfortingly. Ignoring the cold knot in his stomach.

More lip-biting, rather painful-looking, as Matt struggles for control of himself.

Kelly lets him work it out, patiently—knowing how necessary it is to him when he's feeling adrift.

"We got a call," Matt finally says, about a minute or two later, voice almost to report-making level and not looking back up, "gas leak in a factory on the docks. Ammonia. Most of the workers had already gotten out when we arrived—we got the last two from the roof, and it went fine, but most of them were in respiratory distress and the ambos were taking too long to get there, so we took as many as we could in the trucks and ferried them to Med."

This rings no bells whatsoever in Kelly's head and that's _really_ fucking disturbing. "Okay," he whispers encouragingly instead of letting himself think about it, squeezing Matt's hand again.

Matt takes another deep breath, gaze resolutely locked down, right thumb resuming those little near-hypnotic soothing circling on the back of Kelly's hand. "We called Med ahead we were coming—they were already packed with that flu outbreak—we were unloading our victims and helping with triage when—" Deep breath, his hands suddenly trembling, and his teeth clamp down around his already-abused bottom lip again for a second or two, as Kelly stares in a sinking sort of anticipation. Then, voice a bit wobbly: "This guy steps up on a chair with a grenade—out of fucking nowhere—and yells he's the apocalypse. That he's worse than Ebola."

" _What?_ " Kelly can't help asking, blood suddenly _chilly_.

"Yeah," Matt answers, finally looking back at him—his reddened eyes as horrified as Kelly feels. "You tackled him," he adds, and it comes out vaguely accusing, but Kelly's not sure Matt realizes it.

Kelly's torn between _That's how I ended up here, then?_ and _Did it help?_ but the only thing that comes out is a rather flat "Shit."

" _Yeah_ ," Matt agrees again, looking a little pissed but mostly still terrified and utterly exhausted. "They teach you to tackle grenade-wielding terrorists in Squad training?" Possibly, it was meant humorously sarcastic, but Matt's tone is just the drained one of someone who's seen too much in too little time and still hasn't processed any of it.

Kelly has nothing to answer: every extra classes or seminary on bombs and terrorism he's ever gone to has eventually ended with the unspoken _If everything else fails..._ But he sure as hell is _not_ going to point that out, not now and not to Matt, not when it's becoming incredibly obvious he's scared April _and_ Matt—and probably everyone else—by using that last, wild, human-body-shield card.

He's succeeded though, apparently. If no one else was hurt. That's definitely worth his missing chunk of memory. (But he doesn't quite understand how he's alive, if things were desperate enough for him to go _that_ far.)

He squishes Matt's shaky hands in both of his, and Matt stops gnawing at his lower lip just long enough to throw him a weak little smile.

"I'm sorry I worried you, sunshine," Kelly tells him seriously, but Matt just shakes his head, avoiding his gaze again. Kelly doesn't let go of his hands, unsure what to do besides waiting him out.

"The doc," Matt eventually continues, quietly, haltingly, "when he first saw you—he wanted to black-tag you."

 _Shit._ "You didn't let him," Kelly surmises gently instead of saying it aloud.

"I wouldn't have," Matt answers, bestowing the most sad, heartbreakingly soft smile down to their clasped hands, "but I didn't even have time to open my mouth," he adds with a little laugh that still radiates despair, "Mills and Brett all but bit his head off. They helped the other doc operate on you as well—you wouldn't be here without them."

"I knew I liked those kids for a reason," Kelly tries to joke—but it comes out a bit flat.

Matt makes a little sound that's more sob than laugh, and has his right hand clapped against his mouth before Kelly even realizes he's moved.

"Sunshine," he says, trying to ground him again, cradling the hand he's been left, "hey. It's okay."

Matt shakes his head again, but eventually puts his right hand back down on Kelly's. "You—you had shrapnel from the grenade—they had to open your chest," he continues, voice wobbling, "move one of your lungs—fix one of your arteries—and if we'd all been infected—" He seems to choke a little, swallowing heavily and still not looking at Kelly.

"Infected?" Kelly can't help asking, stomach somehow sinking even _lower._ "By what, the ammonia?" Then his brain catches up: "Shit, no, _ebola_? _Worse than ebola_? What the _hell_ is _worse than ebola_?" Fuck, he doesn't even want to _imagine_.

"Marburg virus," Matt answers in a shaky near-whisper. "Hemorrhagic fever. It's transmitted by bodily fluids—that's why he blew himself up, to infect as many people as possible. There's no treatments, after infection, I looked it up after—probably shouldn't have," he adds with a self-depreciating grimace. "It's a biological weapon," he continues, and his voice is almost to report-level again, but he's still not looking at Kelly. "He worked in a lab doing research on it, Antonio told me after, and he injected himself with it—just to kill—"

His voice cracks again, and Kelly squishes his still-shaky hands (perhaps a bit too hard), speechless and aghast, both at what must have been such a long and stressful situation and at the thought of Matt in this mess, worried, terrified, and completely unable to let it show.

"But it didn't work?" he hazards quietly, needing to understand. To be reassured that Matt, too, is as alright as anyone caught in such an horror can be.

"He miscalculated, thankfully," Matt answers with a little grimacing grin, throwing a glance back at him for a second, eyes too big and too scared still, "he wasn't past the incubation period, so even blowing himself up he couldn't infect anyone." A tiny pause, and with a dreadful little laugh: "We got lucky, I guess. The doc who did the tests said the worse we'll get is Influenza A."

"Fucking hell," Kelly whispers.

" _Yeah_ ," Matt agrees a bit hollowly.

Kelly squeezes his hands tightly and Matt squeezes right back, giving him a tiny, heartbreakingly sad smile without looking up.

"We had to lock down the ER of course," Matt continues, "the Chief and the others still outside managed to herd the people that had ran out back in so it could be contained—"

"Shit, I'm guessing those guys weren't happy," Kelly can't help saying.

"No," Matt answers, with another one of those awful little laughs, "but we couldn't let anyone leave without knowing what it was—and there wasn't even a working toilet for people to wash their faces, it was..."

Kelly squishes his hands again—he doesn't know what else he can do but be there.

"The explosion had caused a ceiling fire," Matt starts again, after a deep breath. "We did our best to put it out, Hermann, Otis and me—Dawson was helping the civilians with the hospital staff, and Mills and Brett were helping the other doc with you—but it spread above the sprinklers anyway and caught the electrical system, and by that time we'd run out of extinguishers. And we had no ladders, either. Chief sent us some with Cruz and Rice—they'd volunteered, like the rest our guys outside, even though that meant they'd be exposed—and we managed to put the fire out, and the smoke wasn't too bad, but you were still...they were still working on you, and the infectious disease specialist—they'd sent us one in an hazmat suit—was still doing tests, and your chest was opened and all I could think was that if we were all infected and it wasn't curable it'll all have been for nothing—"

His voice has gotten more and more wobbly until finally breaking off, and Matt swallows convulsively, eyebrows knotted on his forehead, one hand escaping Kelly's grip again to press against his mouth. Kelly _aches_ for him.

"But it wasn't for nothing," he says softly, soothingly, cradling Matt's other hand again, "you put that fire out and everyone got to go home safe, it wasn't for nothing."

"A few civilians had to be hospitalized too," Matt mumbles in a whisper, hand now over his eyes, "there was a guy with the terrorist's ulna inside his chest. And _you_ —"

He chokes again, and Kelly squeezes his hand. "But he'll be home soon, won't he?" he asks, knowing Matt would have checked up on him, and like he's guessed Matt nods in answer. "And so will the rest of them," he continues, and Matt nods again. "And so will _I_ ," he concludes, and Matt finally move his hand and raises his head to stare at him, eyes huge.

"I'll be home home soon," Kelly assures him, "and driving you _insane_ , sunshine, you'll see."

Matt lets out a little laugh—a genuine one, but one that nonetheless still has tints of sadness under the sudden surprised joy. "I hope so," he whispers, a tiny, shaky smile blooming on his face.

"Oh, you can count on it," Kelly answers, tone purposely jovial, "I heal fast, and I _like_ to drive you insane, so I'm going to heal even _faster_. I'll be home pestering you in no time—you're not getting rid of me that easily," he grins—his best idiotic grin, squishing Matt's hand.

Matt smiles back softly, sweetly—and a bit sadly still. Kelly knows, suddenly: that whole horrifying shift is not the only thing eating at him. He also knows that whatever it is, Matt doesn't want to say at all.

"There's something else, isn't it?" he asks, gently, with the kind of reassuring little smile he usually uses on particularly spooked victims. "You know you can tell me anything, right, sunshine?"

There's a pause, as Matt eyes him with what looks like deepening, sorrowful _guilt_ and Kelly has to will himself not to hold his breath.

"Dawson kissed me," Matt finally whispers, gaze dropping down.

Kelly _nearly_ lets go of his hand, but Matt looks up, and his eyes are pleading, mouth working soundlessly, and Kelly can't let go until Matt does.

"When I was leaving Molly's. She kissed me and she wanted to go home with me for the night," he continues, like if he doesn't say it—say it all in one breath—he'll _choke_ on it, even worse than he'd been occasionally choking earlier, "you know, back to Lieutenant and Candidate in the morning, just a reaction to the stress of the day she said, and, Kelly…"

 _No_ , Kelly thinks—numbly but with _all_ his might.

"Kelly," Matt chokes out, unsteadily, wide blue eyes so earnest it _hurts_ , "all I could think about was you. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up, they wouldn't let me stay after all this mess and Boden insisted we all go to Molly's with the hospital staff, and everyone kept telling me you were fine and you'd sleep all night even if I could be there with you and I still had bits of guts in my hair and I thought you'd want fresh clothes when you woke up and I got here—"

"Matt," Kelly interrupts, tone carefully gentle despite the sickening pit in his stomach, " _Matt_. I'm fine."

"I got here as early as I could," Matt finishes wretchedly.

"I'm _fine_ ," Kelly repeats, because he _is_ and because he just can't take the lost look on Matt's face. "You can—you can go see Dawson if you want," he forces out, averting his eyes to the ceiling.

There's that old saying about setting them free, isn't there?

He doesn't realizes Matt is still holding his hands until it dawns on him that the shaking he feels is _Matt's_ hand _trembling_.

"I—I told you, I'm fine," he insists, worried bordering on perturbed as he turns his head, then his whole body, trying to sit up to face Matt's crumbling form. Matt's face is hidden behind the hand not currently being squished by Kelly's, and Kelly is frankly getting scared to see him breaking down like this. "Something wrong with Dawson?" he asks gently, taking a shot in the dark.

" _No_ ," Matt explodes, dropping down Kelly's hand and abruptly standing up to tower over him with reddened, tear-filled eyes. "You're an _idiot!_ You could have died, and you're an idiot, and I—I—"

"I'm _fine_ ," Kelly says again, completely lost himself, getting his elbows under him to sit up and—do _something_. He doesn't know _what_ , if _anything_ , he can do to wipe that crushed look from Matt's face, but he knows he'll do just about any and every little thing that could even slightly help.

Matt's mouth opens and closes silently for a few seconds, eyes impossibly wide and spilling tears on his flushing cheeks, shoulders shaking and breath coming out in hitches. " _I love you_ ," he hisses suddenly, voice completely broken. "D'you hear that, you fucking _idiot?_ " he continues, intense and _wrecked_ , "I fucking love you—so fucking much—and I can loose you, Kel, I can't—"

"You won't," Kelly interrupts a bit frantically, "you haven't, I'm right there and I'm _fine_ , y'see?" Then what Matt's said _really_ sinks in—it feels like all the air in the room's just went out, and Kelly is warm all over and shocked stupidly silent.

In retrospect, in the second it takes him to unfreeze himself, faced with Matt's quietly shaking, too-still form, Kelly has no fucking idea how he didn't see this coming: Matt has always gotten attached too fast and too easily to anyone being nice to him, fallen in love way too deeply after barely a date or two, if even that. And Kelly's fucked him every way into Sunday, taken him so far past his comfort zone—past anything he's ever known—that he was the only thing keeping Matt from shattering away. The only thing Matt could see—feel, breathe, grasp at and hold on to.

Of course Matt loves him: he's made himself Matt's world, in those—has it really only been _days?_ It feels like he's been with Matt all his life—and Matt, despite his sometimes idealist tendencies, is far too much of a realist—has been _made_ far too much of a realist by all the shit life's thrown at him—to be able to shake off the world for just a taste of a past dream.

Unless Dawson offers him everything somehow, for better or for worse, Matt is _Kelly's_.

Kelly's to take care of, to love, protect and treasure, to send into orgasmic, blissful orbit, and Kelly's to gently catch again when he comes down, to adore and to keep warm and safe and happy and _shining_.

And Kelly... With everything he has, everything he is, Kelly doesn't want him to be anyone else's. He'd let him go, if Matt wanted—he'd let him go and even smile at him as he did. But fuck, how much it would _hurt_.

And _of course_ Matt is freaking out: everyone he's ever loved has either died on him or left him. _Everyone_. And Kelly? Kelly's nearly gone that first way, too. Might go that way _still_ , with their line of work: he can't promise not to die, no one can. They both know sometimes even being as careful as humanly possible simply isn't enough.

The only thing he can promise is that he'll never leave _voluntarily_.

"Come here," he whispers, holding out a hand as much as he can, upper-body weight resting on one elbow.

Matt doesn't come any closer, standing there rigidly hugging himself, like he'll break apart if he doesn't. There's tear-tracks on his cheeks, his eyes are too big and too wet, and he's shivering, biting his lower lip tightly. The very picture of lost, devastated misery.

Kelly's whole being _aches_ with the need to comfort him. " _Matt_. Come _here_ ," he says again, finally managing to sit up. Despite the lump in his throat, this time the tone is right: it's an obvious order.

And Matt obeys, Kelly's good boy still, sitting back down and giving Kelly his hands—giving Kelly _his wrists_.

Kelly sucks in a breath, taking them, because _that_ , here, now, in this context? It's sheer, raw _trust_. Complete surrender—made even more potent by the fact that there's absolutely nothing sexual in the action. And trust from Matt Casey is never, ever something to be underestimated, never something that should ever been taken for granted, because it's so rare, because it costs Matt so much. Because it's _always_ a gift—a precious one. So _this?_ This is Matt trusting Kelly with everything—not just his life or his body (which are already very, very precious things) but _everything_. This is the most precious gift of all.

 _Matt_ is the most precious gift of all.

Kelly's never felt deserving of much, in his life, and he certainly doesn't feel like he deserves _Matt_ —but that doesn't matter: he'll be _anything_ Matt wants. And if Matt trusts him like that, _this much_ , then Kelly'll just do his damn best to be worthy of him.

Of course, he needs to get Matt to stop trembling first.

He gathers Matt's wrists to hold them in one hand and gently, softly goes up Matt's arm with the other. Slowly, sliding up and up and up in a long caress, like he can smooth everything down with it, like he can make everything better. (He hopes he can: Matt trusts him—Matt trusts _him_ , so, so much. He _has_ to be able to. He won't accept anything else of himself.)

He traces Matt's lips with the tips of his fingers, and they open a little with a sudden warm breath: Matt's bitten the lower one so hard it's all red, and bleeding slightly at the top. Kelly brushes it gently with his thumb, moving his hand to cup Matt's cheek—and, eyes down, Matt catches Kelly's hand, cradling it in his, the fingers of his other hand wrapping around Kelly's wrist. And then he's pressing his lips against Kelly's palm, fervently, body shaking with one silent, solitary sob as he closes his eyes tightly and stays there, like Kelly's hand is the only thing that's keeping him from shattering.

Kelly's heart is a huge smothering thing threatening to block his throat. "Matt," he forces past it, hoarsely, "Matt. Sunshine. Look at me."

It takes a few more seconds, but Matt finally does. His red-rimmed eyes are still wide, still too wet and still too lost—Kelly doesn't even want to think how much worse they would have been if he _had_ died. Died right in front of him, or on the operating table, with nothing Matt could do at all—like Hallie.

"I'm sorry," Matt whispers—very nearly _whimpers_ —before Kelly can say anything else. And stutteringly, _brokenly_ : "I'm sorry, Kel, I was just so scared you'd—you were—you could h—I'm _sorry_ —I'll stop bo—"

" _Don't_ ," Kelly cuts off, grasping both of Matt's hands—maybe a bit too desperately (but he has a feeling that was going to be _I'll stop bothering you_ , and that's just—no. _No_ , no way he's letting Matt tell him that). "Don't be, don't apologize. I had nightmares for _months_ last year when you ended up in the hospital—I know what it's like."

(Shay comes to mind too, but it's not the same, because she's lost, and Matt hadn't been: it's the terror that he _could_ have been—that he could still be—that occasionally still makes Kelly gasp awake in cold sweat, heart beating too fast. Shay is like Andy, now: a dulling, permanent ache he's learnt to live with, one he can finally look through to remember _right_ , remember laughter and smiles and a million tiny, stupid happy things. Matt had been, and sometimes still is, a deep, oxygen-less abyss of never-ending darkness—very much like Shay right _after_ , until Matt pulled him back, but _worse_ , somehow. Perhaps because Matt has always been _there_ —has always been Kelly's anchoring, centering point, his gravitational pull, even long before Kelly let himself realize it: Kelly doesn't just love him, he _needs_ him. He'd aimlessly, destructively drift away and break apart, in a world without Matt.)

"You're not sorry you love me, are you?" he adds with a little (tender) smile in the face of Matt's wide, confused eyes, trying to make him smile.

" _No!_ " Matt immediately answers, wide-eyed and _horrified_ , "Of course not! I—you—you're the most _amazing_ —I could _never_ be sorry I love you, Kelly!"

Which is absolutely not the reaction Kelly had been aiming for, but the vehemence makes _him_ grin (if not the unexpected compliment), and that makes Matt stop, makes him frowns adorably in defenseless, lost bewilderment.

Kelly grins a little wider (he can't help it), squishes his hands, and finally tells him what he should have said days (a lifetime) ago: "I love you too, Matt."

"...you do?" Matt asks, voice far too small—but face filling with heartbreaking (or is that heartbroken?), disbelieving hope.

"Well actually," Kelly answers, unable to stop a little helpless laugh from escaping at the same time, " _I love you_ doesn't even begin to cover it, sunshine. I absolutely _adore_ you."

Matt's mouth trembles a little, lips parted, big blue eyes filling again. "You do?" he asks again—the quietest of whispers.

"I do," Kelly replies. "So much I'd give you the world, if I could." Perfectly aware how that _I do_ can be taken, and completely meaning it: _And a ring_ is on the tip of his tongue, along with _or a collar, or both, whatever you want, whatever you need_ —but he knows that'd be too much, too soon, to say aloud just yet, with Matt this distraught.

Matt lets out a little shaky sighing laugh, but he smiles a little too: a tiny, unsteady little curve of his lips—a blooming light in his watery eyes, beautiful and _shining_. "I don't want the world," he mumbles, "I just want _you_."

Kelly grins like an idiot, he can't help that either. "I told you the first time, didn't I? You have me, sunshine. You _always_ have me."

Matt's mouth works soundlessly again, but this time it forms a word Kelly's heard recently (a lot, though he doesn't remember where or from whom), and he can read it on Matt's lips: _Always?_

"Yeah," Kelly answers, gently serious and utterly sincere. " _Always_."

Matt nods a little. "I want that," he whispers, eyes so, so soft and so, so blue.

"You have it," Kelly asserts, squishing both of Matt's hands again.

"Kel," Matt croaks, eyebrows angling helplessly. "You can't—"

"You _have it_ , Matt," Kelly heavily repeats. "As much as our jobs will let me promise it, _you have it_. You have _me_. Okay?"

Matt nods again, mutely, not looking any less sad.

"I don't want to lie to you, sunshine," Kelly explains, gently. "We both know how things can go, sometimes. So I can only promise you the same kind of always _you_ can promise _me_ ," he adds, and Matt smiles a bit wretchedly.

Kelly lets go of one of his hands to caress his cheek. "I can only promise you that whatever happens, I'll always do my very best to get back to you," he vows. "I'll fight teeth and nails if I have to, I'll do whatever it takes—so I'll always have the best shot it's possible to have to get out as unscathed as I can—to come home to you."

Another nod, and Matt swallows and catches his hand again, pressing another fervent kiss into his palm, then hiding his face into it. " _Me too_ ," he says, voice cracking a little, "me too, Kel, _always_."

"Good," Kelly whispers back, having to swallow a few times to clear his throat, "I really hate to see you hurt, sunshine."

Matt makes a tiny broken sound, and Kelly lets go of his other hand to cradle his bowed head, card the tip of his fingers through that soft blond hair, wanting to soothe him _so badly_.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" he asks softly, already guessing the answer. He's had nightmares of holding Matt's wrists while he convulsed and seized for months afterwards—still occasionally does. Or he wakes up sweaty and terrified from twisted memories of _another_ one of those times Matt nearly died in front of him. He understands being unable to sleep—being _afraid_ to—all too well.

"Couldn't," Matt whispers. "I kept seeing you there—" he chokes. And with a little self-depreciating laugh that tears at Kelly's heart: "So I cleaned. The whole place. It's _sparkling_ , Kel, I vacuumed and scrubbed and did laundry and everything—I think I even color-sorted your socks into even rows and refolded all your underwear when I was packing you that bag."

And okay, as much has Kelly absolutely hates the thought of Matt this upset and _alone_ —especially when it's _because of him_ —he has to bite his own lips at that one, because color-sorting his socks? It's _so adorable_ he could cry. (It also means Matt's probably found the eyeburningly-bright, rainbow-colored _fluffy_ pair of socks that were a gag gift from Shay Kelly's never been able to part with—or even box up, keeping it hidden at the very back of his sock drawer instead—but after all they've done together he really can't be embarrassed about a pair of _socks_. Plus, he thinks Shay would feel gleefully vindicated in her gift choice now.)

"And then I drove here," Matt continues, voice wobbling and barely breathing, "but it was still too early and they wouldn't let me in, so I just sat there in the truck until your friend April called me—she said you'd woken up during the night but she didn't want to wake _me_ —and I guess when she realized where I was she took pity on me or something, because she came and snuck me in."

Kelly has the heartbreaking feeling he's been here for _hours_ , quietly waiting for him to wake up, holding his breath at the slightest twitch. (And, yeah, he owes April.) "Shhh," he soothes instead of asking, "Come here, sunshine, it's okay, come here. Get on the bed with me." And immediately he realizes that won't work, because Matt is on his right side and it's his heart Kelly wants him to feel. "Wait, on the other side," he amends, "walk around the bed and sit with me."

"That's your bad side," Matt protests weakly, blue eyes _pleading_.

"We'll be careful," Kelly instantly replies, smiling softly to reassure him. "Now come here, I want to hold you."

"You could hold me on this side," Matt whispers, looking away from him.

"I want to hold you _on the other side_ ," Kelly answers, tone purposely gently teasing. "So come over here, sunshine," he adds, patting the bed with his left hand. "On the bed," he orders. "Leave the chair."

Matt bites his lips again, but he obediently does, gaze skittering back to Kelly's at least three times in the five or so seconds it takes him to get up and walk around the bed. He sits down where Kelly's indicated strikingly cautiously, apparently knowing exactly were Kelly's injuries are, hyperaware of his own elbows and knees, obviously terrified to knock against Kelly and aggravate something.

"Here," Kelly insists, gathering him in his arms and laying back carefully, "Closer. Put your head on my chest."

Again, Matt does as told, but this time he sniffles a little as he does—almost imperceptibly, but nearly shattering Kelly's heart anyway.

Kelly hugs him tight, tugging at him until there's no space left between them: Matt is shaking—Kelly _hurts_ for him. "Shhh," he whispers, "it's okay, sunshine, it's okay."

"Kelly," Matt mumbles brokenly, sinking against him, " _I refolded all your underwear_."

"Hey, you can do whatever you want to my underwear, baby," Kelly teases gently, hoping to at least make him smile a little.

Matt lets out a little scoffing sound—only half laughter but speaking of steadying waters already, and he's burrowing impossibly closer, hands fisting Kelly's gown.

"Feel me?" Kelly says soothingly, fingers gently massaging his scalp and the back of his neck, "I'm breathing, all good and normal, and my heart's beating, steady and all. I'll be out of this bed and home with you in no time, sunshine, you'll see," he adds with a little grin.

"You'd better," Matt chokes out. And, _fervently_ , right against Kelly's chest: "I _love you_ , Kel."

"I love you too, sunshine," Kelly answers, softly, his heart _swollen_ with it. He bites his lips and switches to stroking Matt's hair, his back, his neck, his arms and his clenched fists—everywhere he can reach, like every single touch can say it too, can make Matt _feel_ how much he does, how _loved_ he is. How _utterly adored_.

Slowly, Matt stops shaking. Eventually, his breath—so warm through the thin fabric of Kelly's gown—gets more and more regular.

"You're okay," Matt whispers against him, drowsy-sounding and not quite a question.

"I'm okay," Kelly confirms gently, petting him still. "Hear my heart?" he adds in the same tone.

"Yeah," Matt answers—sleepily, but with a genuine, _happy_ smile in his voice, body finally starting to become lax in Kelly's arms.

"You see?" Kelly continues comfortingly, slowly, rhythmically carding his fingers through Matt's hair, "I'm fine, sunshine, it's beating just fine. Strong and steady."

But Matt doesn't say anything this time—doesn't even make a sound: he's gone all loose against Kelly, falling into the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted.

Kelly holds him tight, there against his steadily beating heart, his fingers clutched in Matt's sweater, against the back of Matt's neck. He bows his head to bury his face in that soft blond hair and breathes him in: his sweet, impossible love, his shaky, flickering bright light in this world of darkness—as beautiful as the sun, and just as necessary.

And he thinks, but doesn't say, because there's only so much mushiness a guy can take, even with the excuse of possibly loopyness-inducing meds and with their love all unconscious—no matter how true the thought is: _And every single beat is for you._


End file.
